Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

She hesitated.

“Think of it this way,” Carillo said as they walked the circumference of Stow Lake. “With Doc Schermer and me both working on it, that’s two investigators, which is better than one. And we’ve both got a helluva lot more experience in violent crimes than you. So unless you can come up with something better than that, I’d say you’d be turning down a golden opportunity to find out what’s in that suicide note.”

And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But before she had a chance to think about it, she noticed some tire track depressions where the grass had been torn up, the ground showing through, still muddy from the previous rains. She took a closer look. “What are the chances this is from our suspect vehicle? It would fit this guy’s MO, driving close to a body of water to dump his victim.”

From the sidewalk, Carillo bent down, examined the track left in the grass. “Sort of far from where the body was dumped, when you think about it.”

She glanced over at the curb, saw a smear of black from where tires had obviously run up and over the pavement and onto the grass. “Unless he was looking for a good spot? Someplace not likely to be seen from the main road? Pulled up here, but changed his mind for some reason. Too many benches, too many rocks?”

“Possible,” Carillo said. “But why pick another spot and not this? Just as close to the water here. Maybe even closer. And there’s a perfectly serviceable bench he could use to lay out his victim. Not quite a picnic table, but a close second.”

“Maybe just a bit too visible from the street? A car drives past, he sees the headlights…”

The two stood there, looking around, trying to piece together what significance, if any, the tire tracks had. They were located on the narrow strip of grass between the street and the path that circled the water. There was a driveway, probably to allow lawn equipment up to care for the grass. At first glance it might seem a logical spot to drive up, get closer to the water, but the way was blocked by the row of green benches where people could sit and view the lake and the pagoda. Then again, as Carillo mentioned, maybe the benches so close to the water were what drew him there to begin with.

As Carillo placed a marker to direct the ERT there for photos and trace evidence collection, and with luck a cast of the tire marks, Sydney pulled out her cell phone to call Dixon. She wanted to know how likely it was that their UnSub had pulled onto the grass here. “Need a favor,” Sydney said, when Dixon answered the phone.

“As long as it doesn’t cost me manpower.”

“Not if you go yourself. I need someone at the hospital to ask Tara a couple things.”

“Such as?”

“We’re hoping she might remember something about the terrain she was driven through. Bumps, noises, that sort of thing. We’re trying to recreate his route through the park.” And then Sydney told him about the tire track gouges in the lawn.

“I’ll check and get back to you.”

Carillo nodded his approval as Sydney hit end and clipped the cell phone on her belt. “Not bad, Fitzpatrick. Didn’t know you had it in you to be proactive.”

“Just when I start thinking you’re a nice guy. You must have had a deprived childhood.”

“Think how boring I’d be if I hadn’t.”

They spent the next hour watching ERT dredge the lake around the area where Tara was found, because according to SFPD, Tara thought he threw something heavy in the water just before he dumped her, something that made a loud splash. She didn’t think it came from the back of the vehicle, nor did she have an idea of what it might have been.

She didn’t dare open her eyes to see, not wanting him to know she was still alive. And so Sydney and Carillo stood there, watching, wondering what they might recover. So far they’d pulled up a child’s sneaker, a few empty beer bottles, a crushed metal trash can painted the same green as the benches, a woman’s purse, a bicycle that looked as though it had been run over, and an ice chest filled with rocks, no doubt to make it sink. No weapons, nothing that stood out. The ice chest was what the techs were concentrating on, thinking that the suspect might have tossed that in, purposefully sinking it, because he’d used it in his crimes. They were in the process of photographing it when Dixon called. “I’m at the hospital now. The only thing she remembers about the drive that night was the guy started swearing when he hit something.”

“Like a curb?” Sydney thought of the black mark near the mud-filled tire tracks.

“Like a car.”

“A car?”

“Or something solid was what she told me.”

“When?”

“Just before he dumped her at the park. Sort of woke her up, the loud noise at the back end of the vehicle.” “You mean he hit a car in the park?”

“Yeah. Backed into it, then took off, swearing, panicked from the way he was driving. She said it was only a couple minutes after that he threw something in the water, came back, dumped her in the water, then fled. Prior to that, he’d been very meticulous, took his time, like it was planned, laid out. That’s all I got, though. She’ll have the nurse call if she remembers anything else.”

“Thanks,” Sydney said, then related the info to Carillo. “Damn,” Carillo said, looking around the park with renewed interest. “What the hell did he back into?” “Parked car? Telephone pole? Whatever it was, it was in a couple minute drive from the dump site.”

“We should check everything from about a two-minute to four-minute radius.”

She looked around the park, beginning to wonder if there might be a different explanation. “What if you struck something while you were backing up, hit the gas a bit too hard? Drive around for a minute, maybe two until you were sure no one heard? The street makes a circle.”

Carillo eyed the tire tracks. “Panic that might be increased from hearing tires ripping up grass and wet soil? Nothing like getting stuck in the park with a body in the back.”

“Exactly,” Sydney said. “But what would he have hit?”

And that was when they both turned and looked out at the water where they were still dredging the lake, and then on shore where ERT had deposited all the detritus and junk they’d found on the bottom.

“The trash can?” Sydney said. “That could sound like a car if you hit it.”

“Sure as hell make a splash if you got pissed and tossed it in the water. If you’re right, lunch is on me.”

“Lunch. You’re on.”

They walked toward the garbage can, which was resting on its side, dent down, and Sydney signaled for someone from ERT to come over.

“Any way you can tell if this thing’s been involved in a recent vehicle collision?” Sydney asked.

The agent, Maggie Winters, pulled some latex gloves from her pocket. “Well, something definitely smashed it,” she said, putting the gloves on, then righting the can so that she could walk around it. It wasn’t but a few seconds later that she said, “Not sure that it was a vehicle collision, but it definitely made contact with something.” She pointed, and they had to move closer. “See this? Fresh gouges in the green paint, where it scraped against whatever hit it. Metal’s clean right there. Shiny. No oxidation.”

“Could that have been made by the dredging equipment?” Sydney asked.

“No. Whatever hit it, hit it pretty hard. Hard enough to rip the metal.” She stopped, looked around, spied another green trash can, and pointed. “That one’s held to the post by a chain. Makes sense,” she said, returning her attention to their trash can. “It looks like it was jammed between something vertical, like a post. The chain probably held it in place, which no doubt caused more damage than if it had just been loose.” She circled the trash can, stopping on the other side. “And whatever hit it on this side was also narrow, which means if it was a vehicle collision, the vehicle hit it at an angle, not straight on. See this here? Little bit of white paint transfer. What color was the UnSub’s vehicle?”