“Killer X slits the throats of his victims, all of whom are women,” he said. “This abductor is shooting violent teenage boys. It’s not the same perp, Rachel.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve studied thousands of serial killers. The motives behind the crimes are different.”
“I found a link. Please come, and see for yourself.”
Vick was pleading with him. Deep down, Linderman wanted her to be right. It would get a horrific killer off the streets, and be a great boost for her career. Only his gut told him Vick wasn’t right. Serial killers did not shift gears.
“You’re absolutely certain about this,” he said.
“Yes. I’m positive it’s him.”
“All right. Tell me where you are.”
She gave him the address, and he promised to be there in a half hour. Going inside, he took a shower and threw on his suit. As he was knotting his necktie, he noticed Danni’s photo gone from the dresser.
“Muriel?”
He found his wife at the kitchen table holding Danni’s photo in her lap, her body racked with sobs. He held her until she stopped crying, then went to see Vick.
Chapter 2
Every county in Florida dealt with juvenile offenders differently. Some put the offenders on house arrest and made them wear electronic monitoring bracelets on their ankles. Others sent the offenders to boot camps, where they lived in bunk houses and drill sergeants turned their lives into living hell. In Fort Lauderdale, offenders were entered into a rehabilitative program called Harmony.
Harmony was an ugly pile of burgundy stucco on the west side of town, its neighbors a nasty biker bar and an Asian massage parlor that took all major credit cards. It was a seedy area, and Linderman found it hard to believe that sending a problem kid there would change him or her for the better, unless the idea was to scare them straight. The street had been cordoned off, and he showed his credentials to a patrol officer before being allowed to enter.
He parked his SUV at the curb and got out. The slain driver’s body lay beneath a white sheet on Harmony’s front lawn. Dried blood stains raced across the grass to the side parking lot, where a pair of gloved CSI technicians from the Broward Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for clues. Vick stood beneath the building’s shade, awaiting his arrival.
“Who moved the driver?” Linderman asked by way of greeting.
Vick stepped out from the shade. She was dressed in a navy pants suit the same color as a cop’s uniform. She was small, and wore heels to compensate for her size. Her sun-streaked blond hair was cropped short, the effect almost boyish. She wore little make-up, yet still managed to look stylish and pretty. Had a badge not been pinned to her lapel, she could have passed as a teenager.
“One of Harmony’s counselors did,” she explained. “The fire ants were attacking him, so the counselor dragged him onto the lawn.”
Florida was like the jungle; when people died outdoors, critters began to eat them.
“How badly was the crime scene compromised?” he asked.
“It’s worthless to our investigation.”
He knelt beside the dead driver and lifted the sheet. The victim was a balding, overweight white male in his late 40s, his shiny head covered in angry red bites. His neck had been sliced, the coagulated blood around the wound stretching from ear-to-ear. Criminals called it giving someone a necklace. He was having a bad day, but nothing like this poor son-of-a-bitch.
“What’s his story?”
“His name’s Howie Carroll. He’s been a Harmony driver for five years,” Vick said. “Carroll was supposed to deliver Wayne Ladd to his anger management class this morning at seven-thirty. One of Harmony’s counselors found Carroll’s body in the parking lot. The counselor assumed Ladd had killed Carroll, and called 911.”
“Why did the counselor think that?”
“Last year, Ladd shoved a bayonet through his mother’s boyfriend’s heart. He’s a violent kid,” Vick replied.
“Just like the first two victims.”
“Yes. They both killed adults in their early teens.”
He stood up, and had a look around the Harmony property. Daylight abductions were rare. It told him that the perp had little, if any, regard for the law.
“Any witnesses?” he asked.
“The manager of the Magic Mart across the street witnessed the killing,” Vick said. “It was also captured on the store’s outside surveillance camera.”
“Is this the tape you told me about?”
“Yes.”
“Still convinced he’s Killer X?”
“I sure am.”
The excitement was still there in Vick’s voice. She’d hooked a live one, and now wanted help reeling him in. She’d given Linderman something to feel good about, and he felt the dark clouds that had been circling around him slowly lift.
“Where’s the manager now?” he asked.
“Inside the store. A homicide detective is getting a statement from him.”
“Let’s go talk with him.”
The Magic Mart was an ice box, the aisles crammed with bags of potato chips and cases of discounted beer. Behind the counter stood a skinny Latino wearing a brown smock with the name Juan stitched in white letters above the breast pocket. Beside him stood a chunky white male with blown-dry hair and an off-the-rack suit whom Linderman assumed was the homicide dick. Both men looked up.
“Why, hello Rachel,” the detective said, flashing a smile.
“Hello, Roger,” Vick replied. “Detective Roger DuCharme, this is Special Agent Ken Linderman, supervisory agent for the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment unit in North Miami. He’d like to speak with the manager.”
Linderman liked the formality in Vick’s voice. Firm but polite. DuCharme glanced warily at him as if sizing up an opponent, then dipped his chin. Linderman didn’t like the vibes the detective was giving off, and nodded back.
“Mr. Gonzalez doesn’t speak English very well, so you need to go slow with him,” DuCharme explained.
If Linderman had learned anything living in South Florida, it was that the vast Latino population spoke English better than people thought. He faced the manager and smiled pleasantly. “Good morning. Please tell me what happened earlier.”
Gonzalez appeared eager to get away from DuCharme. Coming out from behind the counter, he led the FBI agents to the front of his store, where he pointed across the street at the Harmony building.
“This morning, I see a big man on the sidewalk over there,” Gonzalez said. “I think he maybe Cuban or Puerto Rican. A van come into the lot, and the big man run over to it, and wave to the driver like something wrong. The driver get out, and the big man grabs him like this.” Gonzalez mimicked putting someone in a choke hold. “He puts a knife to the driver’s throat, and cuts him bad. The big man jump into the van and punches the boy. Then, he take off. I feel bad for driver – you know?”
“Did you know the driver?” Linderman asked.
“Oh, yeah. He come into the store many times. Nice guy.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“It happen so fast, it didn’t seem real. You know?”
“The man was quick.”
“Oh yeah.” Gonzalez snapped his fingers. “He kill him just like that.”
“I’d like to see the surveillance tape,” Linderman said.
Gonzalez locked the front door and led them to a storage room where a TV and VCR sat on a desk. Linderman pulled up a chair, as did Vick, while DuCharme stood behind them working a piece of gum. Gonzalez pressed the Play button on the VCR.
“You watch,” Gonzalez said.
The TV came to life. A surveillance tape showing the front of the Magic Mart started, the Harmony building and parking lot visible across the street. Stamped in the bottom right corner of the tape was the date and time. The tape had been taken at 7:30.24 that morning.