Slasherazzi (8 page)

“Who needs an angel when you have me?” Vince asked.
I snickered and smacked his hand away. “Calling you angelic is probably the biggest joke I’ve heard in a long time. If anything, I’d say you’re the devil.”

Two days passed in the blink of an eye. Every second we spent following up possible leads, rechecking past evidence—of which there was very little, besides the coroner’s reports—and canvassing the streets for potential witnesses. Needless to say, we came up with a big fat bowl of nothing.

I sat at my desk, tapping my pen against the surface. To my left, Tanya rifled through a stack of papers, reviewing a list of potential suspects. She had searched our database for anyone with a record who had been a victim of child abuse. As it turned out, there were quite a lot.

The rest of the office was empty, save for the lieutenant who paced about his office while on the phone. He flailed his free hand about as though he was swinging for an invisible target. Whatever was happening on the call, it didn’t look good. He glanced through the window, caught me watching, and pulled the blinds shut.

Well, there went my distraction.
“Found anything yet?” I asked, turning to Tanya.

She shook her head. “I could be looking at his face right now and not know it. Reckon we can rule out the pedophiles, but damn, we need a way to narrow down this list or we ain’t getting anywhere.”

“Yeah, well, this is all we got right now, and it sure beats the hell out of twiddling my thumbs while waiting for a call to come in. Speaking of which, if you’re just gonna sit there, you could at least make yourself useful and get me a coffee. White, one sugar.”

“Sure thing,” I said, welcoming the brief reprise. I walked over to the kitchen, picked up the still warm coffee pot and made two cups—one white with sugar and the other black and bitter. As I set them down on our desk, the doors burst open. A group of three men and two women strode in, each wearing smart shirts and trousers.

At the head was a woman with a white shirt and black suit jacket, and a name badge clipped to the pocket on her left breast. She caught my gaze and stepped forward, extending her hand.

“Special Agent Marshall,” she said. I took her small hand, and she shook firmly. Then I introduced Tanya and myself. “You are the two who have been working the case since the start, correct? Great. I’ll want to talk to you both soon and make sure we’re all up to speed. Is Lieutenant Boyd in?”

I pointed over to the office in the far corner. “He was on the phone a minute ago.”
“I’ll go let him know we’re here. Is there somewhere we can set up our things?”
“There’s a meeting room down the hall,” Tanya said. “Alex can show you where it is.”
I glared at her, and she smiled back. Since when was it my job to escort a bunch of stuck-up feds around the place?
“Thank you,” Agent Marshall said, then started across the office, leaving the other four suits behind.
“It’s this way,” I said, turning back toward the kitchen, which I pointed out along the way. I opened the door to the meeting room and ushered them inside before following them. They set their cases and bags down on the desks and chairs, before the man nearest to me spoke.
“Agent Powell,” he said. Powell was a big man, standing around six-three. His light blue shirt stretched across a pair of broad shoulders that would make most men look small in comparison. He had olive skin and green eyes, with close-cropped black hair.
I nodded, and he motioned to the other three agents. First was Agent Royal, a small woman with blonde hair. She smiled, then went back to unpacking files and notepads from her shoulder bag.
The last two men were Agents Dixon and Miles. Nothing special about either of them—average height and build, clean-shaven, and short hair. Just your standard suits, really. They both looked up for a second, then went about their business without so much as a hello.
“I’ll go get the case files,” I said, excusing myself from the room.
“That’d be great, thanks,” Powell said.
I walked down the hall and sighed. The next few days were going to be hell for sure. Hopefully, they’d get all the information they needed, then keep to themselves. The last thing I needed was to end up working with Agents…I frowned, having already forgotten the names of the two robots posing as men.
At the end of the corridor was our archive. I pulled the files for each of the victims and bundled them into a box to carry back to the meeting room. Special Agent Marshall was coming down the corridor with Boyd when I returned. She opened the door for me, and I dumped the folders on the desk.
“This is everything we have on the killer and the victims,” I said.
Royal picked up the first folder and flipped through its pages, having already set up her work area, while the others continued to unpack. She held a pencil in her left hand, which she tapped against the pages of the file as she read.
Boyd stood in the doorway. “I’ll be in my office,” he said. “Anything you need, just ask Alex and Tanya. I’m sure they’ll be happy to oblige.”
He left, the door banging shut behind him. Bastard.
I waited at the head of the desk, my hands in my pockets as the feds finished setting up. Marshall sat down and began to look through some of the notes that had been made about the killer. After the first page, she paused and looked up at me.
“I’d be interested to hear what you think about the case,” she said, tossing the stack of papers haphazardly onto the table. The others stopped what they were doing and focused their eyes on me. I shrugged and took up a seat, leaning on my elbows as I recounted the story of each victim, the information flowing easily from memory thanks to the countless nights I’d spent obsessing over every little detail.
They scribbled notes down as I talked through the many different theories that evolved with every new victim, and how each one had been as fruitless as the last. Halfway through, one of the drones, Dixon or Miles—I couldn’t tell them apart—stood and wrote out notes on the nearby whiteboard about each of the victims.
“There might be something to the child abuse theory,” Royal said. She tapped her pen against the notepad in her hand. “Each of the victims was male, and many of them were in their late-twenties to early-thirties. That would be around the age of a young father.”
Marshall nodded. “Has there been any indication that the victims were involved in child abuse?”
“Our second vic was a known pedophile, and the fifth had been accused of molesting a young girl but nothing was ever proven,” I answered. “We did some digging on the others, but couldn’t find anything.”
“Could just be a coincidence,” Powell said, scratching his chin. “Or maybe it’s not important whether his target is a child abuser or not. It might set him off, but his main goal would be to find someone who could act as a surrogate for his father. If they’re male and around the right age, maybe that’s enough.”
“Well, it’s certainly not their appearance he’s choosing them for,” said clone number one, who was still at the board. He turned, and I squinted to make out his nametag. Miles. “Other than their age and sex, these men have nothing in common with their looks. We got a variation of builds, hair and eye colors, and ethnicities.”
“Unless there’s something else that’s triggering him,” Dixon said. “Maybe a personality trait, a smell, or just something they’ve said.”
“Could be,” I said. Maybe that was it. We were so busy looking at what was right in front of us, we hadn’t stopped to consider that the clue might be something we couldn’t see at all.
Marshall picked up the file on victim five, the pastor, and glanced down the first page before flicking through the rest. “Says here that Robert Pearson was interviewed following the accusations made against him, but I can’t seem to find the reports on that.”
“That’s odd,” I said, standing and shuffling through the folders. “Must have gotten filed separately. I’ll see if I can find the notes. Does it say who interviewed him?”
She turned back to an earlier page. “It was an Officer Rick Michaels.”
“Michaels? I know that name from somewhere.” I rubbed my temple as I racked my brain for any record of him. After drawing a blank, I shrugged. “Maybe not. I’ll be back soon with the information.”
I moved to the door and opened it. “Michaels. Rick Michaels,” I muttered under my breath, making sure I didn’t forget the name before I reached the archives. Then it hit me. “Shit. Michaels. He was the guy in the elevator with me.”
The one who had said something should be done about people like Fernando.
Double shit.

Powell walked slowly through the office with a black file under one arm and the young cop by his side. He smiled, making idle chat as he walked toward the interview rooms. Rick had been excited at the prospect of talking with one of the FBI agents, so he’d come along willingly, without any need to let him know what we were up to.

They went inside interview room two and shut the door behind them. I followed Special Agent Marshall into the adjoining room to watch from behind the one-way glass.

Powell asked, as he motioned for Rick to take a seat. “Oh, sure. Just a glass of water please.” Rick sat down
while Powell left the room momentarily. The officer
twiddled his thumbs as he looked slowly around the room,
until the agent returned with two glasses of water. “So
what did you want to talk to me about?”
Powell pulled out his chair and sat opposite. “We’re
interviewing people about the Slasherazzi case. You’ve
been to most of the scenes, right? Maybe you have some
insight into this that other people have missed.”
“Really?” Rick’s eyes lit up, and his lips stretched
almost from ear to ear. “You want my opinion?” Powell nodded. I turned to Marshall and frowned.
“What’s he doing in there?”
“Building rapport and engaging the suspect,” she
replied. “If he doesn’t realize what’s happening, he might
be more likely to reveal something.”
“You think he could be our guy?”
Marshall shrugged. “Too early to say, but I have a
couple of theories. I read in the reports you attempted to catch the killer as he was delivering the pictures to the
media, right?”
“Yeah. We tried staking out the Tampa Tribune’s
main office for a week, and he delivered the photos right
to one of the journalist’s doorsteps instead.” I groaned at
the memory of all those nights cooped up in my car and
drinking copious amounts of coffee to stay awake. I’d
given up after five days of waiting and handed the baton
on to another pair of detectives. Next time, I’d let
someone else suggest a stakeout. “Seems like he always
manages to be one step ahead of us.”
“Well, how did he know to avoid the office?”
Marshall asked. “How many people knew about the
operation?”
“Just the people in this office,” I replied before the
implication dawned on me. “You’re saying the killer
works here?”
She nodded. “That’s one of my theories, yes.” I left my mouth half-open, unable to think of a decent
rebuttal. Of course, I didn’t want to believe it was one of
our own that had butchered five civilians and left
Fernando headless. But in the past month, we had
attempted leaving cameras on the Tribune’s office and
having officers posted outside their journalist’s houses.
The only thing we managed to catch was countless hours
of useless video. If the killer was working on the force,
then it would explain how he managed to slip through our
net. Shit, the agent really did have a point.
As for Rick, if it wasn’t for the comment about
dealing with people like Fernando, I’d have had no reason
to suspect him. He was small compared to most men,
certainly not someone you’d expect to be able to subdue
some of the victims. A dose of sedative could easily solve
that problem, though nothing had shown on the toxicology
reports. Perhaps a gun aimed at the victim would have
been enough to make them compliant.
“Tell me, why does he send pictures to the media in
the first place?” she asked.
“He wants people to know who he is, and to taunt us
for not being able to capture him,” I answered.
“Perhaps. Though, maybe what he really wants is to
continue enjoying his kills.”
I furrowed my brow and sucked in my lower lip. With
the photos turning up at the newspaper offices, I’d always
assumed their purpose was to deliver a message to the
public, and to mock us.
“You mean to say he’s taking the pictures for
himself?” I asked. “I guess if he wants to remember the
murder, then a camera is a good way to do that. But why
would he send them to the media? Unless he’s enjoying
watching people’s reactions. In which case, he might
involve himself in the investigation and watch it unfold
from within.”
Marshall nodded. “That’s what I think. I have a few
other ideas I’d like to test, too,” she said, turning her gaze
back to the interview room. Powell and Rick were still
talking about the case.
“So you like serial killers?” Powell asked.
“I’ve been fascinated with them since I was in high
school,” Rick replied. “I used to read about them in books
all the time. It’s my dream to do what you guys are doing,
going around the states solving these kinda cases.” “Well, show us what you can do, and I might put in a
good word for you.”
Rick beamed with joy. “Seriously? Oh man, where do
I start? He makes no effort to hide the bodies, so he
clearly wants us to find them. I’d say he’s also pretty sure
of himself. Maybe even narcissistic.”
“That’s good. What else?” Powell leaned in closer,
resting his chin on his clasped hands.
“The way he cuts the bodies, it’s almost like looking
at two different killers sometimes. There are neat,
methodical slashes, but some of them are messy, like he
loses his cool and goes on a rampage. So I’d say we’re
looking at borderline personality disorder.”
“I’d better watch my back, or you’ll be after my job
before long,” Powell said.
Rick leaned back and grinned. The poor bastard didn’t
seem to have a clue what was happening. Either that, or he
knew and was putting on a very good act.
“What about his victims?” Powell asked. He brought
out a selection of photos from the file and laid them out
across the desk.
“There’s no obvious pattern, other than that they’re all
male and in their twenties or thirties,” Rick said, leaning
over the desk to study the photos closer. After a minute or
so, he shook his head. “I dunno. There must be some
reason he’s choosing these people. He seems too smart to
pick them at random.”
“I agree. We’re going to be doing background checks
to see if we can find a common denominator. I hear
there’s a theory going around that he’s targeting child
abusers. What do you think about that?”
Rick shrugged. “It makes sense. I mean, the way
he…you know…”
“Mutilates their genitals?” Powell suggested. The young man nodded and clenched his fists. “Yeah,
that. It might be his way of playing out a fantasy against
his abuser. But we couldn’t find any evidence to suggest
all the victims had been involved in abuse.”
Powell motioned to two of the pictures, pushing them
forward. “One of these men was a known pedophile, and
the other was accused of molesting a young girl. Says here
in the records that you interviewed the pastor about the
claims.”
Rick sat up straight and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I
did.”
“Do you think he was guilty?”
“Probably, yeah. He never answered questions
directly, like he was trying to hide something.”
The agent nodded and pulled the photos back. “Maybe
the killer thought so, too. That just leaves four victims.
Did you ever see any of them before?”
Rick shook his head, but pointed to the end picture.
“Just Fernando.”
“I guess it was inevitable since you both work here.
Did you know him well?”
“Not really.” Rick folded his arms and huffed. “I tried
to stay out of his way as much as possible. He’d been
giving me a hard time since I joined.”
Powell leaned in but didn’t say anything. Silence
settled in over the interview room, and I wondered what
he was thinking, when Rick opened his mouth again. “He was always calling me names and laughing at me.
The other officers started calling me Chicken Shit because
of him. Made my life fucking hell last year, and no one
would do anything because he was the deputy chief’s
nephew.”
“I hate guys like that,” Powell replied. “They kinda
make you wish someone would do something about them,
don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Rick said. Then his eyes went wide and all
the color drained from his face, leaving his skin a ghostly
shade of gray. “Not like that, though. Fuck, no one
deserves what the Slasherazzi is doing to people. I only
wanted him to lose his job, not to end up in the damn
morgue.”
“I’m not saying you did this,” Powell said, slouching
back in his seat. “I just want to understand your relationship with the victim. The killer could be someone
like you…someone who felt bullied by him.”
“Then you’ll have a long list of suspects,” Rick
replied. “Fernando pissed off a lot of people.”
I turned away, tuning out the rest of the conversation.
The interview wasn’t going to give us any useful
information, just a regurgitation of everything we’d
already surmised. Marshall glanced at me over her
shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That he’s not our guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“We’ve already established that our guy moved most
of the bodies after he killed them, so unless Michaels has a
partner, he’d have trouble hauling the victims to the dump
sites after he’s done with them. Number five was in the
middle of a park, so there’s no way he could have driven a
car there.”
“The knife wounds show two different personalities,”
Marshall replied. “What if we’re not looking at a
borderline personality, but two different people?” I pulled up a seat and cupped my chin in one hand.
“It’s possible, I guess. I still don’t think Michaels has
anything to do with it, though. Did you see his reaction
when he caught on? You can’t fake that.”
“Unless he was reacting to the fact that we were on to
him. But then I imagine our UnSub would have realized
what was happening long before then. Not leaving any
evidence like he does…that takes some brains, and
forensics knowledge. Michaels certainly seems to have
that. I checked over his records, and he aced college with
a GPA of 4.0. Criminology, psychology and even some
minors in forensics.”
“I guess that puts me on the list of suspects as well,” I
replied, though Michaels’ academic record trumped my
3.8. “I still don’t think it’s him, though.”
“Me either, but maybe Agent Powell can still get some
useful insight from him. Oh, and don’t worry, you’re on
my list too.”
I frowned and scratched at the back of my head. “If
that’s so, why bother telling me your theories?” Marshall smiled and walked slowly past me to the
door. “Maybe that’s a part of my test.” She stepped
outside, and the door swung shut behind her, plunging the
room into darkness once more. I sighed and turned back to
the interview room. Whatever was going on in that agent’s
head, it sure went straight over mine.