Hour Game Part 11

"She was supposed to be at work early this morning, preparing for a deposition or something. When she didn't show, people from her firm called her house and cell phones. There was no answer. They sent someone over. Her car was in the garage, but no one answered the door. They got worried and called the police." Williams shook his head. "This is the same guy who did Tyler, Pembroke and Canney, no doubt about it."

Mich.e.l.le picked up on the confident tone in his voice. "Did you receive a letter about the high school kids?"

Williams nodded, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and pa.s.sed it to her. "Here's a photocopy. d.a.m.n newspaper sat on it because it was addressed to Virgil and he was out of town. Apparently, not one single person over there thought to open it. And they call themselves reporters! My a.s.s!"

"Was it in code like the first one?" asked King.

"Nope, that's just as we received it. And no symbol on the envelope."

King said, "So there goes the Zodiac theory." He looked at Mich.e.l.le. "What does it say?"

Mich.e.l.le scanned the letter and began reading:"Okay, one more down with others to follow. I told you the first time I wasn't the Z-man. But you're probably thinking that kid bit the dust under the Z's hand. Think again. I left the dog collar behind because the dog didn't make me do it. I don't even have a dog. I wanted to do it all by myself. And no, I'm not him either. Until next time, and it won't be long. Not SOS."

She looked up at King with a puzzled expression.

"Dog collar? And the dog made me do it?"

"You're showing your age or lack thereof, Mich.e.l.le," replied King. "SOS and the dog made me do it. That's Son of Sam, David Berkowitz, the New York City killer in the 1970s. He was dubbed the lovers' lane killer because some of his victims were young dating couples killed in their cars."

"Lovers' lane, like Canney and Pembroke," said Mich.e.l.le.

Williams nodded. "Berkowitz said his neighbor was some sort of demon who communicated his orders to kill through his pet dog. Crock of s.h.i.t, of course."

King said, "But our guy knows exactly what he's doing. He said so."

Mich.e.l.le broke in. "But I'm not getting this. Why commit murders in similar styles to past killers as a copycat would and then write letters making it clear you'renot them. I mean, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?" them. I mean, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?"

"Who knows?" said Williams. "But he killed those two kids."

King stared at the chief and then looked at the letter again. "Wait a minute. He didn't say that. He says 'onemore down.'"

"Don't split grammatical hairs with a psycho," complained Williams. "He just lumped them together is all."

"Look at the letter again; he also uses the singular: 'kid,' not 'kids.'"

Williams scratched his cheek. "Well, maybe he just forgot and left off the last letter. It could be as simple as that."

"If it was intentional, which kid is he talking about?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

Williams sighed deeply and then pointed up the stairs. "Well, come up and see this. I don't think it'll clear anything up, though. And I don't need a d.a.m.n letter to tell me who he'snot trying to impersonate this time." trying to impersonate this time."

They made their way up the stairs and entered the bedroom. Diane Hinson remained where she'd been killed. There was a blur of activity in the room as forensic techs, police officers, men in FBI windbreakers and Virginia State Police homicide investigators attended to the business of preserving the crime scene and absorbing every valuable morsel from it. If their hollow looks were any indication, however, helpful clues were apparently very hard to come by.

King observed Sylvia Diaz in one corner in deep conversation with a beefy man in an ill-fitting suit. She looked up, gave him a weary smile and then turned away. When King's gaze caught on the symbol on the wall, he jerked back.

It was a five-pointed star but drawn upside down.

"Yep, same thing I did."

He turned to see Williams staring at him. The police chief bent down and lifted Hinson's shirt. "And it's here too." They all studied the drawing on the woman's belly.

Mich.e.l.le had seen the symbol on the wall as well. "It's an upside-down pentagram," she said. She drew in a sharp breath and looked at King and Williams. "That one I know. Richard Ramirez, right?"

"The Night Stalker," said King, nodding. "Who, unless I'm mistaken, currently resides on death row almost three thousand miles from here. He drew an upside-down pentagram on some of his victims, and also on walls of at least one of his victims' bedrooms, just like here."

Williams turned Hinson to the side, and they all looked at the multiple b.l.o.o.d.y stab wounds covering her back.

"Sylvia says it looks like she was held facedown, stabbed in the back and then presumably turned over and her hand wedged against the bureau drawer."

The lawman laid her back down without any indication that he might soon forfeit his breakfast. Williams's resistance to nightmarish sights seemed to be growing stronger.

"Any clues?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

"The killer used a knife from her kitchen to stab her and telephone cord from one of her phones to bind her. There are marks on her wrists that show that. But he took off the restraints to prop up her arm. There are lots of prints in here, but I'd be real surprised if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d wasn't wearing gloves."

"And we're sure it's a man?"

"No sign of a struggle. She was overpowered pretty quickly. And even if a woman did that maybe with a gun in hand, it'd be a little risky to tie her up. Hinson might have been able to get the upper hand. She was in great physical shape."

King looked puzzled. "And no one saw or heard anything? These are attached residential units. Somebody had to have seen or heard something."

"We're looking into that, of course, but it's too early to tell. We do know that the unit to the right of Hinson's was for sale and empty."

"When was she killed?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

"You'll have to ask Sylvia that, if that FBI fellow will let her go."

King glanced over once more in Sylvia's direction. "Is he with VICAP?"

"To tell you the G.o.d's honest truth, I'm not sure. I've had so many people in here I don't know who's coming or going."

"Todd," said King, "make sure you don't say that within earshot of a defense counsel."

Williams looked confused for a moment and then said, "Oh, right, gotcha."

They went and looked at the watch.

"It's set to four o'clock," said Williams miserably.

King bent down and took a closer look. "No, it's not."

"What?" exclaimed Williams.

"It's set to one minutepast four." four."

Williams knelt beside him. "Come on, Sean, I think under the circ.u.mstances that's close enough."

"This guy's been pretty precise up to now, Todd."

Williams looked skeptical. "He'd just killed a woman and wanted to get out as fast as possible. He's probably operating in the dark. Unlike with the other crime scenes, he's smack in the middle of lots of potential witnesses. In his rush he probably just didn't notice he was barely one minute off."

"Maybe," said King with equal skepticism. "But a killer who's careful enough not to leave any usable trace behind doesn't strike me as the sort to write 'kid' when he really meant 'kids' or set a watch to four-oh-one when he meant four."

"Well, if he did mean to make it one minute past, why?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

King had no answer for that. He looked down at the dead woman for a long moment as Williams went off to check something else in the room.

Mich.e.l.le put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sean, I forgot you knew her."

"She was a good person and a fine lawyer. And she sure as h.e.l.l didn't deserve this-not that anyone does."

As they walked past Sylvia on their way out, she stopped them. The man in the suit had joined another group hovering over the body. He was a little shorter than King but thicker and very strongly built; his shoulders seemed to be splitting out of his suit. He had thinning brownish-gray hair, cauliflower ears and a boxer's flattened nose resting between two intense brown eyes.

Sylvia said, "Well, number four and counting. The Night Stalker. Who would have thought?" She shook her head.

"Who's the guy you were talking to?" King asked.

"FBI agent. Chip Bailey, from Charlottesville."

"Chip Bailey?" King said slowly.

"Do you know him?" asked Sylvia.

"No, but I think I'd like to."

"I can arrange something. Later, of course. People are pretty busy right now."

"That's fine." He paused and then added, "Did you note the time on the watch?"

Sylvia nodded. "One minute past four. Like Pembroke's."

"What?" King and Mich.e.l.le said together.

"Pembroke's watch was set to one minute past two. Didn't I tell you that?"

"No," said Mich.e.l.le, "and neither did Todd. He seems to think it was close enough to discount any significance."

"What do you think?" King asked her.

"I think it's important. I just don't know why."

"Anything else jump out at you?" asked King.

"I did a rectal temp on Hinson, after I checked for evidence of s.e.xual a.s.sault, of course; that turned out negative. She's been dead eight to nine hours. There aretwelve stab wounds, though." stab wounds, though."

Mich.e.l.le picked up on the tone in Sylvia's voice. "That equals overkill."

"Yes. It also equals rage," said Sylvia. "There were no defensive wounds on her hands or forearms. She was obviously surprised and quickly overpowered."

She picked up her bag and nodded toward the door. "I'm heading back to the office. I've got patients to see, and then I'll do the post on Hinson."

"We'll walk out with you," said King.

They headed out into brisk air that was being quickly warmed by the sun.

"I meant to ask you, how's your investigation coming with Junior Deaver?"

King glanced at her in surprise. "How'd you know about that?"

"I ran into Harry Carrick at the grocery store. I told him you two were looking into these murders, and he told me you were doing work for him. I still can't believe Junior Deaver could have done it. He's done work at my house. I always found him very courteous and accommodating, if a little rough around the edges."

"We met with Remmy, Eddie, Dorothea and Savannah and the household staff."

"And didn't get too far, I'm sure," noted Sylvia.

"Remmy's really torn up about Bobby," said King.

"I heard he was in very bad shape."

"Well, there's hope," said Mich.e.l.le. "He recently regained consciousness, even spoke, but he just rambles apparently; he's not really coherent, just spouting off names and such. But still that's a positive thing, I suppose."

"Strokes are completely unpredictable," said Sylvia. "Just when you think someone's recovering, they suddenly pa.s.s away, or vice versa."

King shook his head. "Well, for Remmy's sake, I hope he makes it." He glanced at Sylvia. "You'll let us know what you find on Hinson?"

"Todd told me to and he's the boss. At least until the FBI or the state police take over the investigation."

"Do you think that's probable?" asked Mich.e.l.le.

"For purposes of finding this maniac, I think that actually would be a positive development," said Sylvia firmly.

CHAPTER 25.

THE FOUR SERIAL MURDERS INWrightsburg hit the national news pipeline that afternoon and continued on into the evening. Most citizens of the small town sat in front of their TV screens as dour anchorpersons went about dutifully explaining where the rural Virginia munic.i.p.ality was, and how it had been devastated by a series of violent and apparently random murders. State and federal authorities were on the scene, the TV people said, and hopefully, the killer would be stopped soon. Left unsaid was the fact that no one actively involved in the investigation thought that was a very real possibility.

Like their fellow townspeople, King and Mich.e.l.le sat in front of a television in King's office and watched and listened to the stories doc.u.menting what a slaughterhouse their humble domicile had become. When the fact that two letters had been sent to theWrightsburg Gazette by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, "s.h.i.t!" by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, "s.h.i.t!"

Mich.e.l.le nodded in understanding. "Do you think the killer's watching?"

"Of course he is," snapped King. "The notoriety's all part of it."

"Do you really think the killings are random?"