Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Pictures and reports and observation sheets detailing the habits of his victims cluttered the bedroom walls. Not much longer-the walls would soon be bare and every last piece of evidence would be incinerated. He would progress through each and every room with bottles of Pine-Sol and Windex, and scrub away every last fingerprint and fragment of evidence. He had rented the suite for the entire month and planned to be gone a week early.

He moved to the bathroom, undressed, and studied himself in the mirror. His head was completely bald, shaved down to the skin, yet he moved his large frame into the tub, and began spreading shaving cream over nearly every inch of his body and head. It had only been a day since his last shave, yet nothing would be left to chance. The only hairs he did not shave were his eyebrows and lashes, as their absence would be noticeable, and that was the last thing he could afford. The cops could search the murder sites with a vacuum cleaner and find no trace of his DNA or fingerprints.

By that night, the profilers at the FBI would inevitably conclude that he was the very same L. A. Killer who had turned that city upside down three years before. Victim profiles, flawless planning and execution, the tortures and method of death-they’d study it all and reach the inevitable conclusion. Every bit of it was identical, down to necks snapped to the right and the ejaculations.

The cop labs would note how none of the sperm deposits matched the sets they had collected in L. A. a few years before, but then none of the sperm deposits matched each other either.

They would add the L. A. murders to the total and assume Carolyn Fiorio was victim number eight, not number three, and would pull their hair out to understand his logic.

The FBI would recall that the L. A. Killer also had that annoying habit of calling the press and offering them inside tips that infuriated their investigators. Like it was all a big game and he owned the board, which was exactly why he had called both NBC and CBS, offering them the location of the limo and a few very juicy details to taunt the FBI spokesman. Damned shame he couldn’t be there to witness the shock on the cops’ faces when they arrived at the murder site with the camera crews already set up and waiting.

By midnight a planeload of Fibbies would be packed on the red-eye to the coast, frantically rushing to get refreshed on the particulars of that case.

He ran the razor across his chest and chuckled. Funny thing was, long before two hours was up, Carolyn Fiorio had completely changed her mind about the death sentence. By the end there, she was probably the most bloodthirsty advocate in the whole damned country.

The Sun was gently setting as Janet and I peeled out of the parking lot, then through the wide boulevards of Rosslyn, toward Washington, and away from Carolyn Fiorio’s crowded murder site. At the first red light I turned to her and inquired, “Did you get the impression Spinelli’s pissed at us?”

She chose not to answer.

I said, more specifically, “Actually, he’s pissed at you. I think he likes me, and he thinks you’re jerking him off.”

“Nobody likes you.” She grinned. “And recall that he’s the one who keeps calling me.”

We both contemplated the road for a minute before I said, “What are you withholding and why?”

In reply, she asked, “Did you see the burn marks all over her legs and arms?”

“And the bruises, rope burns, and her broken neck. It was sickening. What’s your point?”

“They’re estimating he spent maybe thirty minutes with Cuthburt, and nearly two hours with Fiorio. The difference in ferocity was huge.”

“Maybe the killer has a thing for celebrities. Maybe their different hair colors set him off. Maybe he gets a twitch in his ass on Thursdays. I’m not particularly fond of Thursdays myself.”

“Don’t you want to know how this guy thinks? Get inside his head?”

“No. Wackos live in a world of dark depravity and twisted impulses. That’s a journey I’ll leave to the pros. And so should you.”

She stared out the window and said, “I just think…” and she let it drift off.

“What?”

“It… it doesn’t add up. DNA traces that don’t match. Lisa is simply murdered, Cuthburt’s beaten, then killed, and now, Fiorio.” She paused, and added, “The poor woman was brutalized, as though the killer had something to prove with her.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wanted to generate publicity and excitement. He went over the top with her-a circus killing.”

“Why would he do that?”

She ignored me and continued, “With Julia Cuthburt, he was inflicting humiliation and domination. The dog leash, the severe bruising on her butt, even the impertinent pose he left her in. Fiorio was tortured-methodically tortured. You see the difference?”

“Yes.”

“The lack of consistency should indicate something to us. I think the killer is staging.”

“Staging?”

“Not acting on impulses… staging.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why.” She stared straight ahead and asked, “Do you think there are two different killers?”

“Wouldn’t it account for the differences? They match the generalities of the murder, but their individual pathologies creep to the surface and what they do to the victim before death appears different.” I turned and asked, “Yes? No?”

“What about the pace? He’s smart, and has to know that the faster he kills, the more likely he is to make a mistake.”

“And doesn’t that also point to two of them? Then they’re only killing every four to six days.”

“And how does he pick his victims?”

We appeared to be speaking at cross-purposes here-me trying to draw her out, her deliberately diverting me with these incessant mysteries. It’s an old lawyer’s stunt, you maintain control by asking questions.

And like Spinelli, I’d had enough of it. I swerved into the parking lot of the Orleans House, a restaurant on Wilson Boulevard, swung into a space, and parked. Janet asked, “What are you doing?”

I reached down into my briefcase, withdrew some printouts, and tossed them at her. She stared at the stack and asked, “What are these?”

“The sex cases Lisa was involved with.”

I said nothing as she arranged them on her lap.

After several moments, Janet put her finger on a line and suggested, “Here. This looks interesting. Lieutenant John Singleton. Raped a woman and slashed her with a knife. Sex and violence, the same ingredients we’re looking for, right? Also, he was an officer. Presumably he’s intelligent and resourceful, like our killer.”

I asked her, “Anything else?”

After a few moments, she plunked her finger on another sheet and replied, “Right here. Corporal Harry Goins, rape and attempted murder. Sex and violence again.”

She read through the rest of the printouts, but apparently no other cases jumped out at her.

Clapper’s executive officer had instructed Lisa’s former offices to blindly forward every case she’d been involved with that involved sex in any shape, form, or variety. The result was an interesting mix of weirdness and oddities. Sex brings out the best and worst in people, and defense attorneys see the worst.

Janet eventually straightened up and said, “Singleton and Goins. .. they’re the only two cases that appear to have a connection.”

“You’re sure?

“If these lists are complete, yes.”

“They are complete, and I selected the same two.”

“And did you run checks on them?”

I nodded. “Start with Lieutenant William Singleton. Lisa was his defense attorney. It was her second case, in fact.”

“Go on.”