• Threatening note-bold, taunting; challenging law enforcement
• Knows Mindy amp; Sara, at least by sight
• Careful planning, low-risk victim
• Highly organized offender, profiles his victims
• Blends in with social milieu of victims
• Upper middle class, educated?
• Probably white, young (25–35)
• Possibly in theatre in some capacity, or a fan
• Mask-part of ritualistic staging of the body
“I gotta say,” Butts said, “just about every guy in that theatre company fits this profile.”
“Except Carl Hawkins,” said Lee.
“ ’Cause he’s black?” said Butts.
“More because he’s the wrong age.”
“But the others-”
Lee nodded. “They all fit. And given all the factors, it has to be one of them.”
“Do you think he has a record?” Krieger asked, studying the list.
“He might have,” Lee said. “If he does, it could be Peeping Tom offenses, or even breaking and entering. On the other hand, he might have been smart enough to avoid getting caught.”
“None of the actors showed up on VICAP,” said Butts.
“He’s just getting started,” Lee said.
“Jesus,” Butts said. The phone on his desk rang and he grabbed it. “Butts here. Yeah? Okay, thanks-yeah, let me know if anything turns up.” He turned to the others. “That was the crime lab. No prints on anything so far.”
“What about trace?” asked Krieger.
Butts shook his head. “Nothin’. The mask was wiped clean of any prints, so he musta worn gloves.”
“What about the autopsy?” asked Lee. “Is there a chance that might turn up something?”
“It’s possible-the weapon might have left something behind that we can use to trace it,” said Butts. “So what makes you think this guy is gonna kill again?”
“Well, apart from the fact that he’s threatened someone else-”
“Assuming the note came from him,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right. Assuming that, the bizarre nature of the crime points to someone who is motivated by something other than personal dislike for the victim. He didn’t even take her money, and leaving the mask is highly ritualistic behavior. So is the sword, for that matter-if that’s what he used.”
The phone rang again and Butts snatched it up.
“Detective Butts here. Yeah? No kiddin’? Yeah, fax me the results, great. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at them triumphantly. “That was the ME’s office. We got trace after all. There were some fibers in the wound that didn’t match the vic’s clothing. Blue wool, like from a coat.”
“Well, that’s something,” Krieger said.
Butts looked at his watch and frowned. “I gotta go meet Mindy’s parents. They flew in from Ohio last night and I told them I’d stop by their hotel.”
“You want me to come with you?” Lee asked.
“Naw, that’s okay-I know you hate it as much as I do.”
“I’ll come,” Lee said, putting on his coat.
“One last question,” Krieger said to Lee. “Before you leave.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you sure this killer is working alone?”
“It’s likely, but no, I’m not sure. Why?”
“No reason-I just wondered.”
Butts frowned. “So you think one guy might be doin’ the killing while the other one is writing the threats?”
“I just asked the question, Detective,” said Krieger. “I don’t think anything.”
Butts grunted and put on his coat. “You got that right,” he said under his breath as they left the office.
Krieger’s voice rang out behind them. “I heard that!”
Butts rolled his eyes as he and Lee walked through the precinct lobby. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Why, Detective,” Lee said. “I do believe you’re in love.”
CHAPTER NINE
Facing bereaved family members was one of the most uncomfortable tasks of homicide detectives, and the meeting with Mindy’s parents was predictably draining. The worst part was that Lee and Butts couldn’t give Mindy’s parents any concrete information about her killer, other than to say they were working very hard to find him.
When Lee got home that night he was bone tired. Not for the first time, he felt the heavy relief in closing the front door behind him and slipping on the three locks, the tumblers clicking into place with a satisfying sound, locking out the demands of the world. He stood looking out of the window at the lone mimosa tree in front of his building before heading for the piano, hungry for the soothing purity of Bach.
When he was halfway across the living room, the phone rang. Without looking the caller ID, he answered it.
“Hello? Is this Lee Campbell?”
The voice was light, breathy, with a pronounced French accent. Lee knew immediately who it was. His first impulse was to hang up, but with the receiver halfway down, he stopped his hand.
“Yes,” he said. “This is Dr. Campbell.” He’d inserted his title out of panic, a feeble impulse to cloak his identity, but he heard how arrogant it sounded.
“Sorry, yes-Dr. Campbell.” She was being humble, polite, and it made him cringe. He would have preferred it if she were a slattern, a bitch, a French whore, but her voice was educated and refined.
“What can I do for you?” he said, trying to sound harsh but failing.
“My name is Chloe Soigne.”
“Yes?” He was going to make her say it, spell it out.
“I was wondering-did you get my letter?”
He wanted to make her grovel, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “Yes, I did.”
“Then you know who I am.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not hanging up on me.” Her voice was tremulous, on the edge of tears. She was making it very hard to dislike her. He took a deep breath.
“Ms. Soigne, I appreciate your effort, and I don’t blame you for-for what happened. But I have no wish to see my father.”
“And your sister? How does she feel?”
“My sister is dead.”
Her heard her gasp, then cough-a harsh, hacking sound, the cough of a very sick woman.
“I am so sorry,” she said when she regained her breath. “When did she-how long ago?”
“Six years ago. She was murdered.”
“Mon Dieu,” she said softly. “That’s horrible.”
“So my father knew nothing about it? It was in the papers here.”
“Alas, your father rarely reads the American newspapers. I am so very sorry. Have they caught the person who did it?”
“No.”
There was a long, lonely pause, and then she said, “I am very sorry to bother you.”
“Does my father know you’ve contacted me?”
“He has no idea. He doesn’t even know how sick I am.”
“I’m sorry to hear you’re not well.”
“I’m dying, Dr. Campbell-I have stage-four lung cancer. And I am very worried what will happen to your father when I am gone. That is why I was hoping you might… take pity on him.”
“Look, Ms. Soigne, I-”
“Call me Chloe, please.”
“I’ve lived this long without my father. I don’t need to forgive him, and I don’t want to see him.”
“I see.” Again she gave a little gasp and a cough, but mastered herself. “Perhaps in time your heart will soften and you will forgive him, or at least be willing to speak with him.”
“What makes you think he wants to talk to me?’
“I know he does. He is a proud man, and a foolish one in many ways, but I know he has thought about you and your sister constantly over the years.”
“Actions speak louder than words, Ms.-Chloe.”
“Will you at least think about it, Dr. Campbell? It’s the wish of a dying woman.”
“All right,” he said, irritated at being manipulated so boldly. He thought he heard someone talking in the background, and she lowered her voice.
“I must go now-may God bless you.”
The line went dead. He stood with the phone in his hand, a link to broken promises and shattered dreams. He stared numbly out the window at the mimosa tree, its branches bare and cold in the bitter February wind.