Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

What had been a crisis for a young woman had become the perfect gift from God. Being hairless was one of the reasons she could share a bed with her victims. If a crime-scene investigator found a hair, it would be her latest victim’s, or from her latest wig.

Billie smooshed at the fogged-up mirror with a towel, then admired her hairless body in the glass. She was twenty-eight but still looked eighteen, a nice slender shape, like a model’s, if bustier. She liked the way she looked without hair. She wore the fake eyelashes and thin fake eyebrows just so she would blend in with the outside world. At home, she didn’t bother.

She put on the short, coal-black wig, tugging it into perfect place. It was modeled after one she had seen Kate Bosworth wear in a movie. The actress was beautiful, but Billie Shears looked even better in it.

Dressed again, her tools and trophy packed up, she took one last lap around the room. Her ensemble included plastic booties over her shoes — she had rubbed out her bare footprints in the carpeting and used a damp towel to wipe up any footprints on the bathroom’s tile floor.

Her towel, from after the shower, hung from the rod. Knowing she wasn’t in CODIS, the cops’ DNA database, was a plus. That meant she could leave DNA behind and it would only further confound the police — and now the FBI.

What was a naked woman doing in a motel room with a naked gay man? they would wonder .

As she exited, she smiled. The cops, the FBI, J.C. Harrow himself, could ask question after question; but she would still have her secrets.

When the call came in early Saturday morning, and Harrow saw AMARI in the caller ID window, he hoped it was personal.

It wasn’t.

He threw on chinos, a tan polo, and a brown sports coat, climbed in his black Equinox, and drove quickly to the address in West Covina, a nondescript non-chain motel, two stories with a courtyard parking area.

Anna was waiting just outside the lobby. She was in dark slacks and a gray silk blouse, big black purse on a strap over her shoulder, her stylish dark hair nicely tousled by the balmy breeze of this overcast morning. He wished he could check in at this motel with her and spend a pleasant day getting to know each other in the Biblical sense. That wasn’t going to happen.

“Billie Shears is pissed at you,” she said, meeting him as he climbed out of the Chevy.

“Is she now?”

“Oh yeah. Appears you spent too much time on Don Juan last night.”

He fell in alongside her as she headed inside a turquoise-and-gold lobby where it was still 1977.

“She left a note for you at the front desk,” she said, “and a body in a room upstairs.” “Lucky me.”

“Oh, there’s more. Somebody’s stopped by who wants to meet you.”

He closed his eyes. “FBI?” “Lucky you is right. He’s waiting upstairs.” Evidence techs behind the front desk were gathering security video. The desk clerk, a young black woman in a light blue blazer, was trying to hold her emotions in check.

As they ascended an open stairway around which the airy lobby was designed, Anna handed Harrow a plastic bag inside of which he could see the note.

JC,

I said I would take your tackle — but now you have to wait your turn.

I will line my trophy case with prize after prize till you can’t ignore me anymore.

Next week you make ME the star of CRIME SEED and maybe I will take a week off. But if you even MENTION Dong Wadd I will step up the fun! Maybe one a day — how would you like that?

It’s what you get for ignoring me last night for that hack Dud Wand — get it? Hack! Ha! ha!

You will just have to wait your turn. But I’m coming and when I take yours, it will be nice and slow. Yumm.

Maybe I could shear you right on your show? Best ratings ever!

BS

“I wish this were B.S.,” Harrow said. “But I don’t think he... she... is kidding.”

“Sick shit,” Anna said.

He handed her back the baggie. “No argument.”

They stopped at the top.

She tucked the note in her purse. “What do you make of this rivalry?”

“Dueling serial killers? Vying for attention on my show? What more could any TV star hope for?”

“Blaming yourself doesn’t get us anywhere. But I bet that network stooge will love it.”

“Dennis? I don’t think so. He’ll love the ratings, but he’ll hate the legal exposure.”

Polk was coming down the hall to meet them. He removed his fedora, ran a hand over his forehead. He looked vaguely ill.

Harrow said, “That bad?”

“Castrated murder victim,” Polk said, “first thing Saturday morning? Not my favorite.”

“Not a great way to start a day,” Harrow admitted. “Any ID on the victim?”

“No wallet or anything.”

Anna was in the lead, Polk and Harrow falling in side by side.

Polk said, “Name on the register is Eric Stanton, but the victim’s name is Kyle Gerut.”

Harrow asked, “How’d we get that?”

“FBI guy has a cool new toy that lets him take a vic’s fingerprints and send them to the National Fingerprint Center. Half an hour later, the guy is made.”

“So Gerut had a record?”

“Yeah — gay dude, got busted during some GLAAD rally a few years back.”

“So is Eric Stanton a phony name just for check-in? Or is he the murderer?”

“The FBI doesn’t seem to have a gizmo that can tell us that.”

They had made it to the uniformed officer at the door. Anna went in first, Harrow following, Polk lingering in the hall.

The cop on the door warned, “Crowded in there.”

Immediately Harrow saw what the guy meant: a crime-scene tech was busy in the bathroom, collecting and bagging towels; another tech pored over the bed; and two coroner’s office EMT types were struggling to load the sheet-covered body from the bed onto a gurney.

Years ago, college kids used to stuff themselves into phone booths — Harrow felt like that one last frat boy going for the record.

Across the compact room, a tall brown-haired guy in a crisp navy blue suit and a red tie was taking it all in — the FBI guy, obviously.

Harrow managed to edge beside Anna and whispered, “Collect the Fibbie and let’s talk.”

She nodded, and Harrow retreated to the corridor, where soon Anna returned with the FBI agent in tow. They moved a few doors down, away from the uniform on guard, and Anna made introductions.

The FBI guy was Mark Rousch.

As they shook hands, Rousch told Harrow he appreciated Crime Seen’s cooperation on the two serial killer cases. “A pleasure to shake the hand of a man who saved the life of the President of the United States.”

Harrow had long since given up on saying anything modest or self-deprecating in response to statements like that. He just took the compliment with a smile and a nod.

“You know, J.C. — all right if I call you J.C.?”

“Sure, Mark.”

“J.C., normally any special agent would tell you to butt the hell out of a federal investigation.”

“Understood.”

“And if you even tried to insert yourself into the investigation, like you did with the LAPD, you’d get your ass run in for obstruction.”

The man’s tone remained pleasant, chipper even.

But the second comment had been a step too far, and Harrow suddenly did not like this smiling son of a bitch... but did his best not to show it.

“However,” Rousch said, “this is a rather exceptional situation. Plus, like the LAPD, the FBI needs all the good press we can get.”

Harrow’s voice was gentle as he rubbed it in: “Waco, Ruby Ridge... I get it.”

Rousch’s smile curdled a little. “What I’m saying is, far as I’m concerned? You’re still part of this investigation... in a supportive capacity.”