A figure appeared on the sidewalk in front of Harmony. A tall, broad-shouldered Latino male wearing a floppy white hat, wraparound shades, and an embroidered white Guayabera shirt with matching white cotton pants. The Guayabera was a traditional Cuban shirt, and worn pulled out.
The tape continued to roll. At 7:33:10, a van driven by Howie Carroll pulled into the Harmony lot, and parked by the building’s side entrance. In the backseat sat a teenage boy plugged into an iPod whom Linderman assumed was Wayne Ladd. The boy had a mop of black hair, and seemed to be lost in the music on his iPod.
The man in the Guayabera made his move. Entering the parking lot, he waved to Carroll while pointing frantically at the hood of the van. Carroll got out of the van to have a look. Drawing a knife from his pocket, the man in the Guayabera put Carroll in a choke hold. He fumbled for a split-second, then slit Carroll’s throat in one swift motion. Wayne Ladd watched through the window, his eyes bulging. The man in the Guayabera jumped into the van, and clubbed the teenager to the floor with his fist. Getting behind the wheel, the man in the Guayabera closed the door, and sped away.
Linderman checked the time stamp. 7:33:27. Seventeen seconds and change. Not one wasted movement or step had been taken.
“Show me the link,” he said.
Vick rewound the tape. Again, they watched the killing.
“Watch when he fumbles,” she said.
Linderman watched. The man in the Guayabera tried to grab Carroll’s hair as he slit his throat. Only Carroll was bald, and nearly slipped free.
“He tried to grab his hair, and jerk his head back before he killed him,” Vick explained. “It was an instinctive reaction.”
Vick was right. Not many killers slit their victims throats. The man in the Guayabera had done this many times before.
“I think you’re onto something,” Linderman said.
Vick’s face lit up. “You do?”
“Yes. Let’s see how many more clues he left.”
They rose from their chairs. DuCharme stood behind them like a statue.
“Pretty scary guy,” the detective said.
Linderman did not like working with people who stated the obvious. Their stunted imaginations did nothing but impede the investigative process. He decided to give the detective a chance to redeem himself.
“How do you think our killer got here?” Linderman asked.
“Come again?” DuCharme said.
“His mode of transportation. Did he walk, come by bike, take a bus? Whatever he used, it’s likely someone saw him.”
“I never thought of that,” DuCharme said.
Linderman had heard enough. He told DuCharme he wanted a copy of the tape, then grabbed Vick and headed outside.
“This is a huge breakthrough,” Linderman said, standing beneath the store’s awning. “We’re not going to talk to anyone about it.”
Vick’s spirits crashed. “We’re not?”
“No. The media would have a field day, and that will only impair our ability to catch this guy. Think of the headlines. Serial killer abducts boy, murders driver in broad daylight.”
“So I shouldn’t refer to him as Killer X.”
“Not until after we catch him. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Our killer looked fresh. I think it’s reasonable to assume that his mode of transportation had air conditioning,” Linderman said.
“Do you think he came by bus?”
“Yes. He could have taken a taxi, but that would have meant exposing his face to the driver. This guy’s smarter than that, don’t you think?”
“He’s above average IQ, but unbalanced,” Vick said. “Did you see what he did to the driver after he killed him?”
Linderman spotted a covered bus stop two blocks away. He started to walk in that direction. Vick heels clopped on the pavement as she fell in line.
“No, what did he do?” Linderman asked.
“He kissed the top of the driver’s head as he slit his throat,” Vick said. “He was saying goodbye to him.”
Linderman had seen that, but wanted to see if Vick had noticed it.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“The killer’s shirt was embroidered. A Guayabera can be bought plain, or with embroidery. His clothes were also spotless. I think he’s narcissistic.”
“That’s good. What else did you see?”
“That’s it.” She hesitated. “Did I miss something?”
“Yes.”
Vick did not respond. He waited until they were at the bus stop before telling her.
“He’s driven a van or bus before,” Linderman said.
“How can you tell?”
“The doors on vans are tricky to operate. Our killer closed the door on the first try. He may have been a driver once.”
Vick’s shoulders sagged, and she let out a deep sigh. She was a perfectionist, and would flog herself for the rest of the day over this.
“I missed that,” she said.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We all miss things.”
Chapter 3
Linderman called the Broward County Transit System on his cell phone, and listened to a creepy automated voice tell him the times the various buses made their rounds. Hanging up, he said, “A bus comes to this corner at ten minutes intervals starting at six a.m. Call the Broward cops. Someone needs to talk to the bus company’s drivers. Maybe one of them saw our killer.”
Vick put in a call to the Broward Sheriff’s Department. She was not happy with herself, her mouth turned down in a frown. Linderman wanted to tell her to stop pouting – even the best agents missed things – but knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
He crossed the street. The pavement burned his soles like hot coals. Inside a convenience store he pulled two sodas from a cooler, and put one against his scalp.
He paid with a large bill. His change came back a dollar short. He showed the cashier his badge, and watched the young man visibly shrink behind the counter. In his late-twenties, with jet black skin, and a sing-song Caribbean accent.
“Your name,” Linderman said.
“Ariel,” the cashier replied. “Is that a policeman’s badge?”
“FBI. Feel up to answering some questions?”
Ariel grew even smaller. “Yes, of course.”
“Early this morning, a big Latino man got off the bus wearing white clothes and a floppy white hat. Did you see him?”
“Oh, yes. He was hard to miss.”
“Tell me about him.”
Ariel brought his hand up to his chin in thought. “It was about seven o’clock, and I had just arrived. The man in white got off the bus with maybe twenty people. He crossed the street and stood out front for several minutes. That’s all I remember.”
“Where were you standing when you saw him?”
“Here by the register.”
“Come here for a second.”
Linderman led Ariel to the front of the store, and made him look outside. One of the most interesting interrogation techniques of the last thirty years involved moving a witness, and having them recount what they’d seen from a different vantage point. For reasons no one quite understood, it helped jog their memory.
“Tell me again what you saw,” Linderman said.
Ariel stared through the glass. “The man in white came off the bus, and crossed the street. He came to the front of my store and hung around for a while. Wait, I remember something now. He went around the side of the building to use the pay phone, and two girls approached him. He said something to them. His voice was quite harsh.”
“Do you know these girls?” Linderman asked.
“Yes. They are prostitutes.”
“Describe them.”
“They are both white, rather small, sisters I think. Today they are wearing pink hot pants and halter tops. They hang around on the corner, and men in cars pick them up for blow jobs.”