J. Konrath: Rusty Nail

I hit the computer, searching for missing persons reports going back to 1950.

The number was in the millions.

I added restrictions to my search, confining it to the Midwest, sticking to the years 1970-1996.

Millions became tens of thousands. Still too many to conceivably go through. I back-burnered the idea for later and spun through my Rolodex, looking for an old number at the UIC.

“You’ve reached the office of graphologist Dr. Francis Mulrooney. Please leave a message at the beep.”

“Dr. Mulrooney, this is Lieutenant Jack Daniels of the-”

A click. “Lieutenant Daniels? How delightful to hear from you! I apologize for not picking up. I’ve been forced to screen my calls lately due to some unpleasantness. How can I be of service?”

“Do you still have those handwriting samples from the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve got another note. It looks similar, but I’m not the expert. Any chance of you coming by sometime this week?”

“I’ve got some things coming up at the university. Let me check my schedule.”

I could picture him, reaching a delicately manicured hand into his tailored vest pocket for his appointment book. Mulrooney was short, thin, with a slight blond mustache, comically thick glasses, and a fetish for bow ties. Academics normally intimidated me, but this one I liked. He was both helpful and unpretentious, two traits most professors lacked.

“I’m free tomorrow, late afternoon. But if you’d like a fast and dirty opinion, you can fax it to me.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Mulrooney read off his fax number. I had a photocopy of the recent Evanston note, and managed to feed that into my fax machine on my third try.

“It’s coming through now. Will you pardon me for a moment, Lieutenant?”

“Take your time.”

I trimmed my thumbnail with my teeth, imagining the petite man going over the writing sample with a magnifying glass.

“Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Is the original in marker?”

“Yes.”

“Clever.”

“It’s clever to write in marker?”

“One of the things graphologists look at is pressure. Felt-tip pens disguise that. Tell me, the fax you sent, is this the original size, or did you enlarge it?”

“The real sample is half the size.”

“I see. I look forward to seeing the actual note. This is a very interesting sample. We don’t see this too often.”

“See what, Doctor?”

“It appears to be a forgery. Someone who has seen Kork’s original handwriting and has done their best to imitate it. The descending t -bars. The slant. The capitalization. But there are some obvious differences. First of all, Kork’s writing is heaviest in the lower zone. This person is an upper zone writer, an indicator of high intelligence. Also, there are some feminine characteristics at work here.”

I blinked. “A woman wrote this?”

“It’s impossible to determine sex from a handwriting sample, and men can have feminine qualities in their script, just as women can have masculine qualities.”

Mulrooney went into a lecture about the differences between male and female traits in handwriting, but my attention was drawn away by a very unpleasant surprise standing in my doorway.

“Dr. Mulrooney?” I interrupted. “Something just came up. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Until then, Lieutenant.”

I replaced the receiver on the cradle and turned to face my demons.

“HELLO AGAIN, LIEUTENANT. I hope you remember us. I’m Special Agent Dailey, this is Special Agent Coursey.” He leaned forward a fraction. “From the Bureau.”

They had matching crew cuts. Special Agent Jim Coursey wore a gray suit. Special Agent George Dailey, the same height and build as Coursey, also sported a gray suit, but his buttons were squarish compared to Coursey’s roundish buttons. That must be how their handler could tell them apart.

“Can I see some ID?” I asked.

Dailey reached for his pocket, but Coursey stopped him with a look.

“She’s kidding. She does that.”

“Didn’t you read my profile?” I asked Dailey.

He dropped his hand back to his side and concentrated on looking Federal. Dailey and Coursey were ViCAT operatives from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. ViCAT stood for Violent Criminal Apprehension Team, which used high-tech suspect profiling techniques and state-of-the-art crime detecting computers to waste the time of local cops like me.

“We have some exciting news,” said Coursey.

I couldn’t pass that up. “You’re quitting the Bureau and joining the traveling cast of Riverdance ?”

“No. The Evanston Police Department has invited us in on the new Gingerbread Man murder.”

Here was proof that God hated me.

“We’ve obtained a copy of the video. It contains some similarities to the previous Kork murders.”

“Gentlemen,” I began, “while it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that you’re-”

“We’ve had Vicky do a profile.” Coursey talked over me while Dailey removed a thick packet of paper from his briefcase and plunked it on my desk.

“Vicky is what we call the ViCAT computer,” Dailey added. “She’s a comprehensive compiled database of criminal activity committed throughout the United States.”

Every time they dropped by, they explained Vicky to me. Perhaps I had a sign around my neck that said: “Tell me again, I’m an idiot.”

“Though we haven’t had enough time to fully analyze the videotape of the murder, Vicky postulates that this is the work of a copycat,” said Coursey.

“A copycat,” said Dailey.

“A copycat,” said I. “Was your first clue the note, or the fact that it took place in the same house as Kork’s murders?”

Sarcasm was wasted on these guys, but that didn’t stop me from making an effort.

“If you’ll look over the profile, you’ll notice that this crime took an extraordinary amount of planning and organization,” said Coursey.

“So much so, that Vicky doesn’t believe this is the work of a single individual,” said Dailey.

“The facts point to the perpetrator being a group of individuals,” said Coursey.

“A group?” said I.

“An organized group of at least three people. Perhaps members of a club or organization.”

I took a stab. “Like the PTA?”

“Actually,” Coursey lowered his voice an octave, “we’ve been informed by Homeland Security that three members of a subversive Brazilian band went through Customs at O’Hare Airport eleven days ago.”

I held up a palm. “Guys, while being sent a videotape may have been meant to inspire terror, I really don’t think this was a terrorist act.”

“They’re not terrorists,” said Dailey. “They call themselves the Samba Kings.”

Coursey added, “They’re musicians.”

I took a moment before saying, “You think the murderer is a Brazilian samba trio.”

Dailey held up his right hand and ticked off fingers. “They’re organized. Focused. Motivated. And are in excellent physical condition, by the looks of the pictures on their CD.”

I checked my neck for the I’m an idiot sign. I didn’t have one. But I was considering getting two of them made, with matching gray letters.

“Gentlemen-” I began.

“There’s more,” Dailey interrupted. “According to Interpol, both the drummer and the lead singer have priors. And there have been several dozen instances of mutilation in Brazil recently.”

Coursey leaned in. “Cattle mutilation,” he said.

“Maybe their maraca player is a chupacabra,” I offered.

Dailey and Coursey exchanged a glance. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously, Lieutenant.”