William Diehl - Seven ways to die

Was Melinda Number One instead of Raymond, after all? That’s what they wanted him to believe. But he still had the same feeling he’d expressed to Amelie. If she was Number One, why had it taken Androg two years to strike again? Then why had he struck two more victims in so few days? Something didn’t quite add up, but Cody could sense, like the hunter he was, that they were at least approaching the right trail. Maybe it took Androg two years to plan this week’s killings, starting with choosing the victims and then making sure they were taken out, one by one, and executed like clockwork.

Two years. Twenty-four months.

Cody looked at the file again. Melinda died shortly after midnight, having returned from a Halloween rave.

Tonight was Halloween night.?

As neat as a good plot. Or a well-written crime book.

But writers weren’t the real artists when it came to murder; they were just the critics, the aficionados.

Serial killers were the maestros, the true artists of the medium. Cody was pretty certain who he was up against.

But he knew damn well he couldn’t reveal his suspicions without solid evidence. He’d be the laughingstock of NYPD if he confided who he thought Androg was. He would bide his time, awaiting his break, but now with the assistance of selective perception. He knew what he was looking for, and that would make it all the easier to find. He would do a little medical background check.

Around nine Wolfsheim reported that Song’s blood count was 97.2. “While you were dancing with the fat cats last night, I was working,” Wolfsheim couldn’t resist the barb.

That meant Song was dead less than six hours when they located her. “You won’t be surprised to hear that the odor Rizzo thought was cyanide and the brown powder found on her lips and in her mouth was an intentional misdirect. The powder was applied to Song’s lips after she was dead already-and it smelled like “burnt almonds” because it was burnt almonds.

Androg had gone to the trouble of bringing the misleading evidence along just for the sake of putting icing on the cake.

Plus, there was no trace of the Excedrin-which was not laced with anything-in her system. The partially empty bottle was another misdirect.

Cody was getting impatient with Wolfsheim’s overly deliberate rhetorical style. “I know you found something, Wolfie,” he interrupted. “Get to it, Goddamit. The son of a bitch is out there right now preparing the next victim for us.”

Wolfsheim grunted his acknowledgement. “When we started shaving her skull,” he said, “we found a single gunshot wound-entry on the back of her head.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Cody said. “She was shot?”

Wolfsheim nodded.

“What caliber?”

“I’d say. 22 judging from the size of the entry wound. But it’s impossible to tell. There was no bullet.”

“What do you mean?”

“The damage to her brain made it clear the gunshot wound is what killed her-fired at point blank range, but through some kind of cloth-probably surgical gauze-which is why we found no trace of blood on her hair at first examination. Though we didn’t find the bullet, we found an ounce of water in her brain. The bullet was made of ice.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cody said. “Who else knows about this?”

“No one except Annie,” Wolfsheim said.

“Let’s keep it that way for a few minutes. We’ve got a leak somewhere and I need to plug it before we go back to normal procedure.”

“You think it’s inside TAZ?” Wolfsheim asked, surprise in his voice.

“I sure as hell hope not,” Cody replied. “That’d be enough for me to hand in my badge.” His thoughts went to the Chief’s office, and that didn’t make him happy either.

As if by response, the black phone on Cody’s desk rang. When he glanced at the caller i.d., he nodded for Wolfsheim to stay.

“I found Number Three,” Stinelli said.

“What?”

“On a hunch, I called Philadelphia P.D. this morning early and asked about the details of Steamroller Jackson’s death. The investigating officer just called me back. Jackson was found in an alley, slumped against a wall-naked.”

“Sitting down?” Cody asked.

“Yes,” Stinelli answered.

“Cause of death?” Cody asked, punching Stinelli onto speakerphone so Wolfsheim could hear.

“They wrote it off to a heart attack induced by drugs and alcohol overdose,” the Chief answered. “The poor guy had been homeless for two years, and was a familiar face to the cops on the beat. I asked them to do an autopsy. They still have him in the morgue, waiting for a distant family member to claim him.”

“I want to be there,” Cody said.

“Me too,” said Wolfsheim.

“I’m pulling up outside right now,” Stinelli said. “Bring your coffee… In spill-proof mugs, please.”?

Cody and Wolfsheim both liked their coffee scalding hot, so neither dared a sip until they were onto the Turnpike. When Wolfsheim grumbled about the city’s potholes, that seemed especially treacherous on the West Side, Stinelli cut him short. “What would you rather have, smooth streets or extra cops?” he asked.

Nothing to argue about there.

When the Chief asked about the case, Cody asked him to close the courtesy window.

Stinelli’s eyebrows went up, but he pushed the button.

“Can’t be too careful,” Cody said. “That bastard Hamilton has inside information, and I don’t think he’s getting it from our side.”

“For chrissakes,” Stinelli said, “Berno’s been with me for fifteen years.”

Cody chose not to reply. “Jackson very well could be Androg’s work,” he said instead. “But why Philadelphia-and what’s the connection?”

“The connection,” Stinelli said, “is that the guy used to be a pal of mine.”

“Just like Uncle Tony was Bergman’s pal, and Dr. Wiley was Kate’s?” Wolfsheim said.

Whose pal was Raymond Handley? Cody wondered. “Go ahead, Wolfie, give the Chief your thoughts.”

Wolfsheim summed the case up: “All we know about these crimes is what we don’t know. No DNA, no hairs, no prints, no blood, not even a definitive footprint. No direct connection between the victims, no particular geographical area or social status. We got everything from a rich stockbroker to a restaurant owner to an E.R. doctor, and maybe to a bum in an alley.”

“We know the killer is doing a tour de force of murder methods each time,” Cody said, “using one way but perversely disguising it as one or more other m.o.’s.”

Wolfsheim nodded. “We also know that most serial killers have two characteristics in common: they want us to know the killings are their work; and they subconsciously want to get caught. That’s why they usually leave a totem or trophy.”

“But this isn’t business as usual,” Cody said. “I don’t think this killer is that simple. If he’s like other serial killers, he will develop a ritual to preserve his success-but he hasn’t developed it yet. If Androg wants to get apprehended and brought to justice, it’s gonna be in no way we’ve seen before. There’s some kind of elaborate and unique game going on, and unless we figure out the rules soon it’ll only get worse. If Jackson turns out to be one of them, we’ve got four in four days.”

Stinelli looked at his Blackberry’s calendar as though trying to read its secrets. “It’s gonna be a media meltdown when they get wind of this.”

“Hamilton already got wind.”

“How?” Stinelli asked.

“I don’t know,” Cody answered. “It’s just a hunch. A very strong hunch.” There’s one way he could know that had nothing to do with leaks, he was thinking.

Wolfsheim continued. “He’s not exactly leaving trophies, but this perp clearly wants us to know these killings are his handy work. All the victims were found in a seated position. All three of them were naked-including Jackson.”