Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“You catch on quick, Pollyanna.”

“Webster, Texas?” Dixon’s gaze swung from Sydney to Carillo, then back. “You think our UnSub might have committed a murder there?”

“I think we need to rule it out,” Sydney said, before Carillo could react on her last-second switch. That was not the case they’d agreed on, and Carillo was no doubt wondering what the hell had happened to it. “The victim was a hooker, last seen in a bar before she was found stabbed to death.”

Dixon eyed the stats on the report that the agency in Webster had faxed to her that morning. “We’re not even talking the same MO. She was burned in a trailer fire.”

“But she was stabbed,” Carillo pointed out.

“Find something closer to home and our MO.” He held up the report, his expression dubious, and Sydney realized if she didn’t think of something fast, he was not going to approve her flight.

“The smoke,” she said, and both Dixon and Carillo looked at her, waited. “When I was doing the drawing at the hospital, Tara Brown said something about our UnSub smelling like smoke from a fire.”

“Yeah…” Carillo nodded, like he’d known this all along. “So of course we were looking for similars that might contain that element, the, uh, smoke. Timing’s good. Just a few days before Tara was kidnapped from Reno. Like maybe he committed the one, hightailed it out of state wearing the same clothes, stops off in Reno, grabs Tara, and he’s off again. We’re thinking maybe that’s what he does. Drives from state to state. At least based on our short history we have of him. Figured Fitz could fly there, check it out.”

“Have we gotten anything back from profiling yet?”

“The report should be coming in today. But Fitz ran the case by Doc Schermer, since he did a short stint in profiling. He says it looks good.”

“Seems a little far out there.”

“Unless,” Sydney said, “you take into consideration that there’s lots of places to stop between there and Reno. And we’ve got a couple other rape-murders that somewhat fit the MO on a direct route from there to here.” She dropped several reports on Dixon’s desk as well. Reports that had little or no connection other than they were unsolved.

Dixon held her gaze, as though he suspected something, but couldn’t come up with whatever that might be. He gave a pointed glance at his retirement calendar on the wall, signed the order, and laid it across the reports she had offered up as proof. “Make it a quick trip,” he said, without looking at either of them.

Carillo grabbed the reports and they left. Once out of hearing, he said, “Webster? Trailer fire? You didn’t tell me you were using that report.”

“They were a little short of dead hookers in the time frame we needed.”

“What happened to the one we decided on last night?”

She flipped open the manila folder they’d carried the other reports in. “I swear I didn’t catch it until we were walking into his office.” She pointed to the name of the victim, Dana Edwards, then the box next to it, stating the sex of the victim, where a big letter M was written.

“Dana’s a male?”

“Apparently he was into cross-dressing, which is probably what got him stabbed in the first place. My guess is whoever did the data entry made the same mistake, which is why we didn’t see it when we pulled it up on the computer.”

They stopped at Lettie’s desk, and she looked up from her computer screen, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Well?”

“He approved it,” Sydney said.

Lettie smiled, hit a key, and a few seconds later, her printer spit out a copy, which she handed over. “Your only option going in is the redeye tonight, arriving in Houston at 6:06 a.m., but that’ll give you several more hours tomorrow to investigate… well, whatever it is you’re investigating. Your return flight is set for 3:30 p.m., arriving back here at 5:58 p.m. tomorrow night. Nonstop, so it’ll give you a little over four hours to catch a nap.”

“You’re a jewel.”

“I know. Remember it on your trip back. I like dark chocolate. In the meantime, ERT’s setting up at Golden Gate. They’re about to start dragging Stow Lake, for evidence in your Tara Brown case, and they want to know what your arrival is.”

Carillo glanced at his watch. “We’re on our way.”

Forty-five minutes later, Carillo and Sydney were standing in Golden Gate Park, at Stow Lake, the location where Tara Brown had been dumped and left for dead. The actual park was vast, more than a thousand acres. Stow Lake itself was a body of water that surrounded a small island called Strawberry Hill, accessed by a bridge for day hikes on trails that meandered through the trees and foliage. From the moment Tara was found, there had been road blockades to the entrances of Stow Lake Drive, the street that circled the water. They intended to keep this area of the park closed off to the public until the Evidence Response Team gave the thumbsup. How long that might be was anyone’s guess. During the day the lake was a popular boating, fishing, and picnic area near the De Young Museum and the Japanese Tea Garden. During the night, with the visitors gone, it was entirely possible to dump a body at the water’s edge and not be seen. Their hope was to find a piece of evidence that had somehow been overlooked, and Sydney and Carillo intended to expand the area being searched for just that purpose.

The main crime scene was located on the west side of Stow Lake, but Carillo and Sydney walked over the bridge to Strawberry Hill. Sydney took one half of the small island, while Carillo took the other.

After about an hour, finding nothing, they took a short break, returned to the parking lot, leaning against the car, eyeing the lake. Devoid of the usual day crowd, it was peaceful and postcard-perfect with the stone bridge reflecting in the calm water, turtles climbing onto rocks, even an egret standing among the graceful reeds. Nothing here gave testimony that a horrific crime had touched Stow Lake’s tranquil shores, until one caught sight of the crime scene tape and the ERT crew setting up shop in the small parking lot so they could drag the lake.

Carillo was drinking from a bottle of water he’d just opened. Sydney was sipping from a travel mug filled with now lukewarm coffee, thinking about her upcoming trip to Houston, and what could possibly be in that suicide note, when it struck her. “I can’t go.”

“What’dya mean you can’t go?”

“In five days, they’re executing Johnnie Wheeler, and what am I doing? Running off on what could be a wild-goose chase, because I don’t like it that my father has been accused of being involved in some… whatever the hell Scotty says he’s involved in. What if this suicide note is nothing? What if it makes absolutely no difference to my father’s reputation?”

“Then it makes no difference. You tried. And when you think about it, you sure as hell don’t know that looking into Johnnie Wheeler’s case will make a difference. Seems to me it’s a crapshoot either way. You just gotta pick which one means the most to you.”

“But it makes a difference to the guy sitting on death row. He’s only got five days until they execute him, and I might be his last hope. I need to deal with that first.”

“He also might be guilty. And you might not get another opportunity to get to Houston this easily.”

“But Johnnie Wheeler won’t get another opportunity at life.”

“Tell you what.” Carillo twisted the cap back on his water bottle, then tossed it into his car. “While you go to Houston, I’ll start the digging on Wheeler’s case. I read some of it after you gave it to me last night. I’ll finish it up tonight, see if I can’t locate some of the witnesses and enlist Schermer to help. He’s a whiz on the computers, digging up old data. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find something the investigators missed the first time around.”